


(Oh) I Wanna Dance with Somebody

by Kelly123



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1000-ish words apiece, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bromance, Crack Pairing, Crossover, Dancing, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Random Encounters, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-21
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-11-26 09:01:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/648869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kelly123/pseuds/Kelly123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles and dancing and silliness. (oh my).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bromance

**Author's Note:**

> "I need a man who'll take a chance..."

“Oh, do beg pardon m’lord, I didn’t realize you were...entertaining.”

Jon Snow spun on his heel, eyes wide in fear and horror as a crimson flush quickly spread across his cheeks. Dropping his arms instantly to his sides, he averted his gaze from the intruder, trying to disguise the shame and anger that flared up inside of him and painted themselves on his features as his emotions all too often were like to do. At least the corridor was dark...though evidently not dark enough to hide him as entirely as he had hoped. Silently, he cursed the carelessness which had led to his folly. How could he have been so stupid? How had he missed the sound of footfalls in the echoing hall?

And how, how could he be the one to discover him?

He had known this was a stupid idea from the start. If only he had listened to his sense and ignored the fanciful notion he harbored...the notion that would surely lead to his demise.

“Well don’t be rude now boy, aren’t you going to introduce me to your guest?”

And humiliation. His demise and utter and total humiliation.

Narrowing his eyes to cast a scathing glance at his tormentor, he muttered a curse under his breathe and attempted to shrug off the intrusion, walking away as though nothing had happened. Not that it would do any good of course, for of course he couldn’t get away that easily. Of course he would be followed.

“Please forgive the boy,” the irksome voice continued, “he is naught but a bastard and ignorant of the courtesies one should use when acquiring acquaintances. Allow me to make up for his stupidity.” A painful grip on his shoulder brought Jon to a rough halt as the taller figure rounded on him in the dim light, blocking his path back to his rooms. “My name is Theon Greyjoy, prince of the Iron Islands, and, since Lord Snow has so rudely forgotten to introduce us, might I ask your name?”

“Oh piss off Greyjoy.” Jon grumbled, shouldering his way past the older boy who had dropped into a low bow in front of him.

“Snow! Such language in front of a lady! It is a lady, isn’t it? To be honest, I can’t quite tell in this light.” He said, pretending to squint into the vacant space between them.

His face now a furious red, from equal parts blinding humiliation at being caught in the first place coupled with rage at being mocked by Theon, Jon turned on his heel to glare at the older boy before him. “Leave it be, would you. It was nothing.” He snarled, his fists clenching at his sides at the ready to prove his point if there was a protest.

Which, of course, there was.

“Daresay it wasn’t. Unless my eyes deceived me, I believe I saw the bastard Jon Snow attempting to learn to dance by himself. And failing miserably, I might add.”

“I wasn’t-“

“You weren’t what? You weren’t caressing the waist of the only woman who’d ever be alone with you, an invisible one? Or did she simply run off so quickly that you were left with your arms empty and grasping at air when I happened upon you two?”

“I wasn’t-“

“Or you weren’t shuffling along determinedly to some silent tune in that sullen head of yours, counting out the steps that you are so desperate to learn?”

“I wasn’t...I-I mean, I didn’t, I’m not...”

“You weren’t, you didn’t, and you aren’t what, Snow? If I’ve come to the wrong conclusion, please do correct me?”

It was horribly childish, of course, to shove Theon as though there were toddlers squabbling over a toy, but Jon found himself doing so all the same. His arms shot out from where his fist lay coiled at his sides, planting themselves against Theon’s chest and pushing against the broad planes with all his might.

It would have been worth it, despite the immaturity involved, to see the heir to the Iron Islands pitch backwards and land flat on his back like a fool. That is, if the arrogant man had the good sense to fall when he was supposed to.

As it was, Theon’s hands reached up to grasp Jon’s own, suspending himself through the unwilling aid of the one who meant to see him overturned. To better steady himself, he brought one arm around the boy’s back, sneering into his face as the two regained their balance at much closer stance than before.

“If you had wanted a lesson, all you had to do was ask, bastard.”

Eyes wide in shock, Jon attempted to disengage from what had soon grown into an embrace, but only found himself pressed more tightly against his presumed partner.

“Of course, you’ll have to let me lead, but I suppose you will catch on well enough. I must say I’m a better dancer than anything you’d be able to get your hands on otherwise.”

The younger boy stilled, raising his chin to eye Theon suspiciously. Certainly he wasn’t serious? It had to be a cruel jest, fodder to harass Jon with later, in front of Robb in the yard...and yet.

Theon took a step forward, and an impatient nudge of his knee against Jon’s own bade him to follow. 

“I’m not sure what your shadow woman taught you, but let us begin with the basics. You do know where you are to put your hands, don’t you boy?”

“I’d rather have then around your throat, Greyjoy.” He snarled, but slipped his hand across his shoulder all the same.

“Well done, you make quite the lady in the dark.” He moved to the left quickly, leaving Jon no time to form a retort as he mimicked the motion, recognizing the move as one he had seen his sister Sansa practicing with the Poole girl. Not that he had ever watched them, of course, and not that they had ever offered to show him the steps.

Really though, how was he supposed to learn if no one ever offered to teach him?!

“And bastard?” Jon looked up from where he was studying Theon’s feet, and was taken a bit aback by the wary look in the ward’s eyes.

“Yes...”

“If you ever breathe a word of this, to anyone-“

Jon ground his heel onto the toe of Theon’s boot, grinning wickedly as he watched him grimace in pain. “Likewise.”


	2. High School-AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Still enough time to figure out, how to chase my blues away..."

“You can’t be serious, Bran!”

Of course he was serious...when was he ever not serious? He was younger than her, and probably the most serious guy they both knew. Being a cripple sort of did that to a guy. At least, it had to him.

“Yep.” He answered in what he hoped was a bored voice, never taking his eyes off of his computer screen as he clicked his way through flipbook on autopilot. Dozens of images flickered one after another before him, but he couldn’t make himself focus on anything that wasn’t the sound of her voice.

She sounded...amused? Was that a good thing, or a bad thing? Despite having two sisters and a female best friend, he still hadn’t quite gotten the hang of interpreting women. His brothers had laughed at him when he voiced his frustrations, and told him he had been a fool to ever try. Jojen just looked at him in that knowing way of his which felt so awkward and made him want to change the subject.

His sister, though, was not going to let him change this topic of this conversation so easily.

“That’s not an answer, Bran. Bran-Brandon! Look at me why don’t you?” Meera put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze, urging him to turn away from his desk and face her.

He didn’t want to, he really didn’t, but it wasn’t like he could tell her no.

Or more likely, it wasn’t like she would listen to him if he tried.

“I don’t understand what the big deal is. It’s just prom.”

She laughed, and yes, she definitely sounded amused. Whether it was an affectionate amusement, or one born of pity, though, he still couldn’t tell.

“Of course it’s not ‘just prom’ you crazy kid! Yes it’s asinine and overrated and a complete and total waste of money, but there is no way in all of Westeros that I am going to let you miss out on the absurdity of it all!”

He cocked an eyebrow at her, “You are aware that you make absolutely no sense, don’t you?”

“How dare I, that’s usually your job, isn’t it?” She plopped herself down on the corner of his bed adjacent to his parked wheelchair and nudged his knee with her own. “What’s the big deal Bran, why don’t you want to go to prom?”

The look he threw her was incredulous. “Prom is for dancing, Meera. Handicapables don’t exactly make the best partners, now do they? Something about girls preferring guys with functioning legs, I hear.”

“Oh, you are not turning this into a pity-party, no way, no how. You can dance perfectly fine in your wheelchair, once you get those arms to moving. I saw you cutting a rug at Robb’s wedding last year, remember?”

“Excuse me, but ‘cutting a rug?’ How old are you again?”

She laughed again, and this time he couldn’t help but to smile back. “Respect your elders, sweetling. And there are plenty of girls who would love to go with you-“

“Or, you mean, my brothers and sisters know tons of girls and they could probably guilt one of them into accompanying me into the pits of a disco-lit hell? Thanks but no thanks, Sansa’s already tried to set me up with Myrcella, but we all know she’d just use it as an opportunity to get closer to Jon. Like I said, I’m not going.”

“You wouldn’t have to go with one of their friends, what about-“

“Yeah I would. My siblings are the popular ones, I haven’t got any friends of my own...and I’m not going with Jojen.”

“Glad to know you think so highly of me, then.”

This was it. The sympathy invite he had been dreading and yet anticipating from the very start of this conversation. She had to know how he felt about her, everyone else seemed to at least. She was so pretty, and in college, and-

“You didn’t even go to your own prom, why do you want to go to mine?”

Her eyes got a little sad at that. “Things were different back then, dangerous what with the war going on and all. Not a time for corsages and boutonnières, you know.”

“Oh.” He hadn’t thought about it like that, that she might actually want to go. Girls liked that sort of thing he supposed, and even Arya had gone to her prom...though she had worn converse underneath her dress and gotten brought home by the cops for vandalizing another kid’s limo. Meera would look lovely in a fancy gown, her green eyes lit up against the fancy fabric even more than usual, and he felt a pang of guilt that she had never had the opportunity to wear one.

“And besides, I would have just looked creepy bringing you back then.” He looked up at her sharply, surely she would have had someone else to go with? True she had always been inseparable from her brother and himself, but...a glimmer of hope began to unfurl itself nervously in his chest as she continued. “But now you’re going to be quite the player, you know, bringing a sophisticated older woman with you.”

“Yeah, the kind of player who can only dance with his arms. Awkwardly, too.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair.

She caught his hand and he jolted from the sensation of her fingers intertwining with his own. “I could show you a few moves, you know. I’m not much of a dancer myself, though, and I don’t really like players, as a general rule.” She was looking at him almost shyly, running her thumb across the back of his hand, and his breathing was getting ridiculously loud. “But there are some dances, you know, where legs...they aren’t so important.”

He swallowed thickly, and he knew his face was a hundred degrees right now, but her own cheeks were flushing so prettily that he wouldn’t bring himself to think of anything else but how lovely she would be, out of breathe and laughing while they spun around that ridiculous dancefloor. “Yeah,” he choked out, “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how old Meera is here...but not old enough to be creepy, okay? (Why do I ship young girls with older boys, like Jon/Myrcella, and then older girls with younger boys like this stuff?! If only I could put Jon and Meera together, and Bran and Myrcella, it would make so much more sense. But alas, that is not the way these ships sail.)


	3. Crack!Ship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I wanna feel the heat with somebody..."

“You can...I mean, if my lady wished...that is...err, fur?”

She blinks, twice, staring at him with those lovely blue eyes of hers and gods, he wants to throw himself into the feeble fire she stands before.

He should have known better than to open his mouth. Especially around her.

“Pardon, my lord?”

But now he’s gone and done it and it cannot be taken back. Her voice is the sweetest thing he’s ever heard, and at the sound of it his own seems to have dried up and vanished down the back of his throat. His lips open and close wordlessly and he wishes Jon was here, because Jon always knows what he’s meaning to say even when he can’t get the words out, but then this is Jon’s sister and maybe he doesn’t want Jon to know what is going through his mind right now and gods, she’s moved closer to him now and her pretty little face is furrowed in concern and she’s reaching out a hand and-

“Sam? Are you quite well?”

He nods rather weakly and she certainly doesn’t look reassured, but it is the best he can manage given the present circumstances. He only hopes he doesn’t faint like the green boy he is, because her hand on the crook of his elbow just might be the death of him. It wouldn’t be such a bad way to die, not with hands like hers. Would be much better than getting caught by the Others, though less honorable mayhaps. Less bloody too.

“You look rather pale, would you like to get a bit closer?”

His eyes go wide, and he knows he had to have misunderstood her, but all he can think of is just how close to one another they already are. Any closer and he has no hopes of keeping his knees from giving out. He must be gaping, for at that her cheeks heat from something that can’t be from the warmth coming off the hearth. If he thought her voice was sweet before, it is positively blissful when she stammers a bit with embarrassment.

“I meant, to the fire, of course! It is just so drafty in this old inn, and...”

“M’fine.” He surprises them both when he speaks, her nervousness giving him courage. “But what I was saying, err, trying to say earlier, rather, was...would you like my fur?”

There. It’s out, he’s said it, more than he’s said to her the entire time they’ve been traveling together, and he feels a surge of boldness which stops his quaking legs.

"You...you seem chilled after all, and I’m-well, after the Wall, it’s not so bad here. Not for me, at least.” He didn’t think it was necessary to mention that, unlike the Northern blood of her brother and herself, his was dreadfully thin stuff, and Jon usually had to lend him extra furs in the night lest he be kept awake by the sound of chattering teeth. Such things were not proper to discuss though, given present company, of course.

But she nods her acquiescence all the same and ducks her head as he slides the fur around her shoulders, and when the back of his hand brushes against her neck and she shivers, but it can’t be from him, there’s just no way, it’s just so damned cold here...

It’s still nice, the feel of her skin against his own. He’s so very glad Jon decided to turn in early for the night, for the thought is surely written as plainly as could be in the flush that is working its way up his neck, now exposed by the loss of the fur which had lay upon it. He doesn’t think he could bear the knowing smirk his friend has taken to giving him any time he is struck dumb by Sansa’s nearness in their travels, not right now.

“Thank you. For the fur and for taking me back to Winterfell. You and Jon both have been so kind, I’m afraid I can’t ever tell you how much I appreciate it.”

She smiles, and he manages to return it, holding her gaze for a long moment before the sound of a minstrel’s tones break across the crowd which mills around the room, drawing her gaze. Her face gets wistful as dancers begin to take the floor, and in that moment he can see her as the lady she could be, the one she should have been had the gods not been so cruel, radiant as could be and looking like a vision of love and beauty on the arm of some great ser as they turned ‘round the dance floor in the midst of a lavish feast. 

As it is, such things couldn’t be further from the truth. She hadn’t been that girl for years now, reduced to a supposed bastard on the run with hair a muddy brown and her porcelain skin in possession of more scars than any lady should wear, with naught but two black brothers for companions in a dirty inn on a road which leads Northward, to a castle no one can be sure still stands.

They’ve still hope, though, even if it seems mad that they’ve found it in the midst of all they’ve seen between them both. It is a curious thing, but with it he finds himself reaching out a doughy hand, soft and uncalloused, to offer for her own perfect one. He doesn’t quite believe it when she accepts, and mayhaps she cannot either, but nevertheless they find their place among the townsfolk while the music builds into a song they both remember from when they were very different people indeed.

For even if the floor is rough hewn and rotting instead of smooth stone, and her dress coarse wool rather than fine silks, her face is aglow in the flames with a smile playing at the corners of her lips when they whirl in time with the beat, and he thinks she’s the loveliest woman he’s ever seen in the midst of it all. Or mayhaps because of it all.

He isn’t a knight, but he was brought up gentle-born in a noble household, and his feet move as well as one with a more comely face, if his body does not follow quite as deftly. His arms tremble, but hers do too, and together they find the steps they should have forgotten long ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter reference there if you squint!!


	4. Hairspray Crossover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don'tcha wanna dance, say you wanna dance, don'tcha wanna dance..."

“Oh look, she’s here!”

Given any other occasion, the words might have washed over her in an entirely different fashion. They might have caused her to perk up her head and prompted a grin to break out over her face in delight, eyes eagerly seeking out a beloved companion. She didn’t want to sound like she was bragging or anything, but the thing was, she was kinda popular.

Or maybe, her best friend was popular, but they had been inseparable since what felt like forever, so it was pretty much the same thing. Wherever they went, people knew them, and liked them, and that felt pretty cool. 

This, however, was not one of those times.

Not for her, at least. Samantha is another story entirely. She’s smiling as usual, lips pulled back wide over her perfect teeth, and waving eagerly over the crowd at a person Jenny can’t quite see. She doesn’t have to though, because she knows exactly who her friend is referring to, and she is in no rush to greet the girl surely making her way towards them.

The comb lies forgotten in Samantha’s hand, and she distractedly hands it back to Jenny so that she can run her fingers through her own perfectly coifed auburn tresses. The brunette resignedly heaves a sigh of defeat as she stashes it inside her bag along with the extra-large can of ultra-clutch they have just about emptied. No amount of hairspray, even with Samantha’s viciously skilled backcombing, could give her limp locks the kind of volume the girls in the magazines had. No matter how hard she tried to fashion a beehive, it always came out looking like more of a bee sting.

Speaking of which, she shimmied a little in her dress to make sure nothing had shifted. It seemed like most things about Jenny amounted to little more than bee stings. Thank god for toilet paper.

Her left cup seemed to have wilted a little since they left the station’s bathroom, because of course she couldn’t stuff back at her own apartment where her Papa might see, and she surreptitiously tried to adjust herself as their acquaintance made her way over. Her hair might be a lost cause, but she was not going to accept a flat chest quite so easily.

Not in front of her, at least. She was pretty sure Miss Perfect had been a C-cup before middle school, and had been flaunting her cleavage ever since. Samantha had been blessed in a similar fashion, but she at least had the good grace to act embarrassed about her curves, though that was probably mostly for Jenny’s own benefit.

This time though, Samantha was oblivious to her friend’s discomfort as she rushed forward to embrace the new girl, crushing her in a hug as she squealed, “Hi Margie! Gee, you look super-duper!”

“Thanks doll, you too!” The older girl said as she returned the gesture, nodding her head in what could best be deemed a coolly civil fashion to Jenny since neither one made a move to step forward. “Are you two here to audition?”

Oh no. No way was Jenny auditioning, she only danced in the privacy of her own living room, and sometimes Samantha’s, that is, if her handsome older brother wasn’t around. Even then, she was usually back-up, because that was what she was best at and she was perfectly content with that. She had come today to hold Samantha’s manicured hand and check her impeccable make-up, and hug her in congratulations when they called her name, because of course, they would be calling her name. Samantha was a shoo-in for a spot on the show, and Jenny would be the first one to tell her that. She loved her best friend dearly, and she was happy to do anything for her...or at least she had been.

Until Margie Tyrell showed up.

Margie was older than both of them, a senior at their high school who looked like she could be in college and usually looked down her nose at her classmen like she already was. Both herself and her brother Lucas were already regulars on the Corny Collins show, and it was obvious that Samantha idolized them both. 

And even more obvious than Jenny didn’t. She wasn’t used to having to share her best friend’s affections, and she didn’t like the feeling one bit.

“Oh definitely! I mean, well, I am. I don’t think Jenny is, though...” Samantha said with a bit of a pout, looking at her with sad blue eyes. She had been pleading with Jenny to try-out for the show with her ever since they heard about the auditions which would be preceding one of the girls 9 month hiatus, and for the life of her she couldn’t seem to fathom why her best friend didn’t want to be a part of the fun too. It was one of the many reasons Jenny adored her, she always managed to see the best in people. Even people who didn’t deserve it, like Margie.

“No, I don’t suppose she would, now would she?”

But wait, what exactly was that supposed to mean? And why did Margie have to say it while giving Jenny that once-over, like she could see straight through her bulging training bra to the jealousy beneath?

“I mean, I haven’t made up my mind yet.” Jenny snapped back haughtily, letting her pride get the best of her. She was regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth, but it was already too late.

It wasn’t like she could take them back now, not when Samantha’s whole face had lit up like the aluminum Christmas tree the Starks put up every December and she was bouncing up and down like some sort of adorable Irish Setter puppy.

What had she gotten herself into?

When the auditions were over though, once Samantha had been awarded a spot and she hadn’t made the cut, she couldn’t bring herself to regret the decision.

They had milkshakes afterwards, just the two of them, and Samantha insisted on paying to offer her condolences while Jenny raised her glass to toast her friend’s success. They giggled and whispered, and Margie was the furthest thing from their minds until the television in the corner of the soda shop broadcasted the results from earlier.

It was most unfortunate, really, that Margie ended up being one of those girls who turned all red and snotty when she cried. Especially since the camera zoomed in so closely after her fall, the one which sprained her ankle and kicked her off the show for the rest of the season. Such a shame that she had to slip like that...

However did that toilet paper get in the middle of the dance floor, anyway?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed the names...Sansa just didn't sound particularly 60's-esque?


	5. Modern AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Say you wanna dance..."

"Mother said you aren't to smoke around me."

Her voice was small and tinny and petulant, and he didn't have to tear his gaze away from the parking lot before them to know that she had her hands on her hips and a pout on her face.

All too much like the woman she spoke of for his liking.

"Not my mother," he growled under his breath as he exhaled, trying his best to direct the smoke sway from her, "and I wasn't 'around you' until you followed me out here. You'd better get back inside before they count you late."

"No they won't, because Miss Annette told me to come outside and look for Arya. She's the one who's late, she always is. I just wanted to ask you if youd seen her, and now I'm going to stink like cigarettes for the whole lesson!"

He threw the smoldering butt to the ground and smashed it under the heel of his boot. "Well that's hardly my fault is it? I don't bloody well look like Arya Stark, so how's come you're over here with me if you're supposed to be looking for her?"

His sister's (half-sister's, rather), face fell, and he felt a twinge of guilt. He wasn't used to this; playing the role of big brother hadn't come easily to him since his own mother died and he had been thrust into the life of a father he barely knew. He often forgot little girls required certain handling so different from his own upbringing. Little girls who weren't used to being told no, like Myrcella, at least. Rummaging in his pocket for a stick of gum, he tore it in half and offered the stub to her in a silent sort of apology before tossing the other piece in his mouth. She accepted it all the same, though the corners of her mouth remained twisted downwards in displeasure.

"Thought she might be out here with you is all." She mumbled around the gum, handing him back the wrapper. "After all, you like her more than me anyway."

Great, not this again.

"God, Ella, don't start that. If it makes you feel better, I think the Stark girl is even more annoying than you are."

It wasn't true of course, though he did find both girls hopelessly exasperating. Arya was the most tolerable of all his half-sister's friends. 'Friends' might have been too strong of a word for their relationship though... forced acquaintances, more like. Their father and Mr. Stark has been inseperable in college, and the families spent more time together than most of them would like. Whatever the case, Arya was absolutely insufferable, but even that was an improvement considering the sort of company his stepmother usually kept.

Not that he was usually allowed around said company, that is. Bastard sons weren't good for much, sans chauffeuring the younger of the legitimate around to various practices and other engagements. Such outings included but were not limited to ballet class... a fact which Gendry and his Stark counterpart Jon Snow knew too well.

"I'm not allowed to have gum with my braces, you know."

"I know...but I won't tell if you won't."  
Ella grinned at this, and although he couldn't see a lick of their father in her face, he swore there might have been a bit of resemblance in their smiles.

"And I won't say anything about your smoking...if you promise you'll try to quit!"

Gendry rolled his eyes, and reached out to tousle Myrcella's curls and turn her head to face the black motorcycle pulling into the studio's parking lot. 

Arya's mother staunchly disapproved of Jon's motorcycle, or at least inasmuch as it concerned he own children. She never let her daughter ride on it with him if she could help it, and the sight of a wiry middle-schooler clad in a plain black leotard and faded sweatpants clinging to the driver was a sure sign of trouble. When they parked, Arya yanked off a helmet but seemed to have no inclination of actually removing herself from the bike until Jon gave her a shove and pointed at the two of them standing outside the studio.

As the pair approached, Gendry felt the girl beside him inhale sharply and yank at her own leotard (black as well but ruffled at the waist and with glitter on the sleeves) as Jon shook out those girly black curls of his. Myrcella rotated through which of Ned Stark's sons she was going to marry on a seemingly weekly basis, but it came down to the bastard more often then not these days. She smiled brightly at the both of them, waving animatedly before reaching out a hand to clasp with Arya's and usher her indoors. The act of solidarity was blatantly ignored. Gendry smirked at Arya's scowl before exchanging a knowing look with Jon, who was trying to keep the corners of his own mouth from turning upwards...and failing.

"Arya, don't be rude. Thanks for waiting on her, Myrcella." He said in apology, placing a hand upon her shoulder. "My sister accidentally misplaced the keys to our dad's car today."

"Not an accident." The sister in question growled, kicking at Gendry's shin when he let out a snort of amusement. Jon opened his mouth to chastise her again, but she darted inside a half second later, leaving Myrcella to follow in her wake a little dazedly. 

"You know you've earned yourself a hefty entry in that little girls diary tonight now, don't you?" Gendry said, eyeing the girls as the made their way through the entrance to make sure Arya didn't try to make a break for it again. Luckily though, both made it past the glass doors which separated the studio from the lobby, and took their places at the barre. Arya glared at her reflection and Gendry thought maybe he hasn't gotten off so bad in the sister department.

"Oh shut up." Jon replied in typical Jon fashion, with a blush and a grimace like he didn't know how damn pretty he was. "Arya hid the keys thinking she could get out of dance practice, and then my Dad's wife practically had an aneurism when he said I could take her on my bike."

"Because you're so dangerous and reckless, no doubt." Though driving a motorcycle lent Jon an air of rebellion, Gendry knew he had purchased one because it was cheaper than a car and something he had been able to save up for on his own. He hated having to ask his father (and Mrs. Stark) for money. Gendry tried to hook him up with repair at the shop he worked at after school whenever he could. Bastards should stick together.

"You know me" Jon said with a shrug. "Come on, lets go watch some relevee's...God, you look just like Arya when you make that face!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head, Jon and Gendry would make such good BFF's.


	6. Downton Abbey Crossover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When the night falls, my lonely heart calls..."

"Please? You know how badly he wants to go to this, Brienne."

Of course she knew. That was the only reason she hasn't burst out laughing at the outlandish proposition Loras was making.

Even so, the look she gave her receiver was incredulous.

"And you must know this is a horrible idea, do you not? I very well could be the worst dancer this side of...well, this side of earth, probably."

Loras tittered charmingly on the other end of the line. "See, that's precisely the reason you should be the one to accompany him tonight! You're so very witty, we both think so. Renly would have a lovely time dancing with you!"

Brienne had been called a great number of things in her years as a failed socialite, most of them behind her back, but 'witty' had certainly never been one of them. And yet, when a Tyrell told you such things, you were much more apt to believe them...or at least, to willingly be a bit more naive towards the truth of the subject. 

'Not half as lovely as he would have with you, though...' she thought to herself, but bit her tongue. She was naive, yes she knew that to be true, but not quite so much as they would have her believe to be.

She wished to ask him why he could not accompany his brother-in-law to the ball in his wife's stead, since he was so very concerned with the man's attendance, but she knew how quickly those velvet tones of Loras's could turn icy. Two men did not attend social events together in proper society, even if one was married to the other's sister. However, Lady Baratheon was abroad in America (again) and as Loras mentioned, there was nothing Renly loved more than a ball. though, for a Lord to bring another woman to the ball at Downton would raise more than a few eyebrows amongst certain circles.

Unless...

It was this 'unless' which was unspoken but still so very present in Loras's appeal. Unless the woman was one such as herself, of course. No one would think anything untowards about Renly pitying an ugly old maid like Brienne Tarth and bestowing upon her a few dances for an evening. But certainly only a few, for the rest of the time he would be deep in conversation with his oldest chum from back in the service, none other than the man who had rung her up only moments ago.

Still, she knew he had a point. Renly did so want to go, even if it wasn't truly her he wished to be there with, and she did want him to be happy. She could suffer through cruel sniggering and barely suppressed looks of horror if they mean she could listen to him laugh for a dance or two...

"Brienne? Brienne? Hulllllo? Oh drat, I do believe the-"

"I'm still here Loras."

"Oh lovely! You were quiet so long I though we had gotten disconnected, these things tend to do that sometimes-never mind, anyway, I'm so excited you will be there! Oh Renly is going to be just thrilled!"

She hadn't actually agreed to go, but she didn't need to. Truly, things almost did seem closer to the truth when Loras said them...

Her dress was far, far too tight and she could feel welts blooming on her ribs were the boning of a corset she had been fitted for a number of years ago was pressing aggressively into her flesh. If only Lady Sy-Or rather, Lady Branson now, were here, then she might find someone to talk to, but she was off and married with a babe, and could no longer be relied upon for a kind smile at these sorts of things.

It wasn't as though she could find such a gesture aimed at her otherwise tonight.

Renly, dear, sweet Renly had smiled of course. He had taken her for a turn about the room, narrowly avoiding collisions with several debutantes at regular intervals, and then promptly stationed himself at the bar with Loras in tow. Their laughter rang through the crowd to where she stood a few feet from them, hands clutching a glass of red wine so tightly her knuckles were blanched white against the crimson of the Cabernet.

She had asked for white wine. Renly hadn't remembered.

Of course she shouldn't have thought of that, because the very reminder of how little she mattered to anyone here made her eyes fill with hot, treacherous tears. She could not cry, not in front of everyone, and so dropping her head down she tried her best to pick her way around the perimeter of the dance floor to the powder room she remembered existing just before the grand foyer. She almost made it, too.

That is, until she blindly shuffled her way directly into the path of the youngest Crawley girl. there was a splash and a crash and suddenly she found her goblet rather empty of wine...and the front of Edith's dress quite full of it.

The screech which ripped out of the drenched girl's thin-lipped mouth was something beyond loud, and shrill enough to shatter the glass Brienne had held, had she not already dropped it to the floor in shock. It might have frozen her where she stood also, if it weren't for a firm grip which seized her by the arm and yanked her across a threshold and into a dark room.

If the tickle of a mink stole across her nose hadn't been enough to alert her to the fact that she was occupying a coat closet, a tug at the pull chain above her swiftly revealed she did so with none other than Jaime Lannister.

The military veteran whom she had glimpsed earlier that night laughing with his brother now wore her wine on his shirt as well as a devious grin upon his lips.

"Many thanks, my lady. I was beginning to think I would have to chew off my remaining hand in order to disengage myself from her grip."

She gasped aloud, for it was such a horrid thing to say about a person, especially in Edith's own home, but also for the fact that he had grasped her own hand in his remaining left he spoke of, and brought it to his lips to bestow a kiss upon her large knuckles.

"Might I have this dance?" He asked, looking up at her from where his mouth was still a breath away from her skin with those glittering green eyes.

She had never been an accomplished dancer, but the room was dimly lit and graciously empty from mocking gazes (sans his own curious smirk) and so she accepted. The space was small and their moves simple; Jaime's arms strong and his steps sure. When she ducked her head to miss a nearby hanger, it felt not quite natural but still very nice indeed to leave her cheek resting on his shoulder.

Renly and Loras would have to find another closet, for this one was rather occupied.


End file.
